


Nanny Dearest

by blackeyedblonde



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crying, Double Ended Strap-On, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Fanon, Feelings, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mentioned Warlock Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Other, POV Alternating, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, Roleplay, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual Roleplay, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Strap-Ons, Tenderness, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The Dowling Years (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Sex, breaking character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 22:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: Antonia smiles, and then goes over to fetch her handbag where she left it on the table. “Not so fast, pet,” she says, popping the clasp to reach inside for something. “I had some other plans for you and I, tonight.”When she withdraws her hand, she’s holding something very black and very phallic, though not entirely in the so-called traditional sense, given the fact that it seems to have protrusions of slightly differing shapes on both ends.Francis swallows, hard, and tries not to let his voice crack. “And what might those plans be, madam?”* * * * *(Crowley and Aziraphale do some roleplaying at the Dowling Estate. Er, or--something.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 56
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	Nanny Dearest

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally deleted the original A/N by trying to edit on my phone like a dummy, so here's the abridged version; 
> 
> This is a PEGGING fic. Our two ineffables are using a double-ended dildo. If you want to look up a feeldoe, that's essentially the gist of the thing, but Nanny probably has an even more advanced prototype than that *eyes emoji*
> 
> Terminology for Efforts varies, but nothing should be derogatory at any point. There is one (1) use of the word "cunt" and then the rest is folds, entrance, ass, hole, mound, and cock (for both parties). Crowley is presented as genderfluid overall, and so pronouns will switch from she/her to he/him at a later point in the story upon a marked emotional shift (basically, both Francis and Nanny break character). 
> 
> My fanon-addled Nanny Crowley dresses more like Fran Fine and less like Mary Poppins, but your imagination is a wild garden, be free in your whimsies lol.
> 
> I had fun writing this, so I do hope you enjoy :)

Persimmon-orange dusk is falling across the Dowling estate as Antonia Ashtoreth bids the chef a good night and excuses herself out the side kitchen door, stepping lightly upon the brick servants’ path that will lead her out to the grand portico. 

Beyond that, she’ll pass the gazebo where she and Warlock sometimes have an afternoon picnic of apple slices and grahams smeared with peanut butter, and eventually the path will narrow and grow wilder once again, leading her to a small cottage beyond the tall garden hedges that has kept one light burning in the window for the past five years, rain or shine.

There is something of an arrangement between Antonia and the gardener—one Brother Francis—who calls the cottage his home, built into the framework of an existing Arrangement that is not mentioned nor acknowledged as a professional courtesy to them both. They are cordial and passively talkative during the daytime hours, both tending to young Warlock as they see fit, upholding their respective roles as a tenured nanny on highest recommendation from the letterheads of royal stock and a landscaper so accomplished he once served at the Buckingham Palace.

The arrangement, however, goes something like this, stripped down to the barest simplicity: knock twice for Brother Francis, and knock thrice for somebody else. The Somebody Else, though perfectly accessible at any time, has not been requested once in the past five years. 

As usual, Antonia knocks twice, holding her small handbag and umbrella under one arm. She clears her throat while she waits, though it only takes a moment for the old wooden door to swing wide, revealing the slightly stooped gardener in nothing but his linen shirt and trousers and suspenders, the heavier frock carefully hung on a peg by the entryway now that he’s retired for the evening.

“Madam Ashtoreth, what a pleasant surprise,” he says, blue eyes twinkling under his heavy brows in the last weak dregs of daylight. “Please, do come in and make yourself comfortable—I’ve only just sat down with a fresh pot of tea.”

“You know by now that you can call me Antonia, Francis,” she says, breezing inside and bringing with her the heady scent of warm spice and smoky bergamot into the one-room cottage that already smells like clean earth, darjeeling, and sweet vanilla cream hand-whipped for the dessert tarts cooling on the windowsill.

“I suppose I do,” Francis says kindly, closing the door behind her. “How was your day at the zoo with young Master Warlock?”

“Bearable,” Antonia replies, not yet bothering to remove the dark glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “We threw chips at the chimpanzees and sent the reptile house manager into an apoplectic fit, but I’d say it was as good an outing as any.”

“Indeed,” Francis says somewhat cagily, pulling out a chair for her at his table big enough for two, but Antonia has already crossed the room to look at the velvety black orchid she gave Brother Francis several years ago, not too long after Warlock’s first birthday. 

She strokes a gloved finger down the long, curved stem, smiling enough that one of her canine teeth shines for the briefest moment. 

“You know, I don’t believe I’ve ever had such a hardy plant, given their delicate natures,” Francis remarks, watching her back. “It grows and blooms like nothing else, even when I forget to fertilize it from time to time, the poor thing.”

“It must be well-aware of what expectations are in place,” Antonia says pleasantly, sliding the orchid one last look from the corner of her eye before turning away from the window. “Well,” she says, slipping her gloves off and tucking them into her bag. “I suppose I’ll need to try your newest confectionary delight before we get down to business, don’t you think?” 

Francis flushes immediately, a deeper pinkness blooming across his sun-kissed cheeks. “Tea is invariably better when it’s made for two,” he says, going to fetch teacups and plates from the sideboard. “Come, sit, and tell me about life in the manor.” 

Neither of them tend to care much for gossip, but Antonia finds herself indulging in some anyway, simply to watch the expressions on Brother Francis’s face. She mentions the hollowed-out book in the upstairs study and its secret contents, a most unfortunate firing of Warlock’s third kindergarten tutor, a good Christian girl, and then the laundry maid falling pregnant out of wedlock, already showing through her uniform and not yet knowing whether the father is the chauffeur or Mrs. Dowling’s personal assistant, the poor dear.

Brother Francis takes a mild sip of darjeeling and sets his cup down to gaze out the darkened window, brow furrowed just the slightest bit with what may be consternation. “I really hope it’s not Mrs. Dowling’s assistant,” he says. “After I put in such a good word for him, and all…” 

“Oh, it’s most assuredly the assistant,” Antonia replies brightly, licking some fresh cream off the tip of her middle finger. “The laundry maid has the most pert little ass. Hard to resist in that pink uniform, I’d wager.”

Francis colors some again at that, the line of his throat bobbing in place. “Well,” he sighs. “The Lord will see them through it, tribulations and all.”

Antionia tips her face forward over the table, showing off the golden yellow of her peculiar irises, beautiful in all their strangeness. “Let’s not delve too far into politics, love,” she says, and then her eyes are concealed again almost as quickly as they’d appeared. “I came to have a good time, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Francis stammers, laughing lightly. He reaches a palm across the tabletop and rests two fingers on the back of her freckled knuckles, a gesture as tender and tentative as a first kiss. “I do always love when you come to visit, Antonia. It can get...lonely, sometimes, living in such solitude, as wonderful as my accommodations may be.” 

“Ah, yes,” Antonia says, pouting out her lower lip a bit as she turns her wrist and crosses a thumb over Francis’s. “It must be hard, edging into your twilight years without real companionship beyond the constricting shackles of piety.”

Francis blinks at that, but then nods. “Alas,” he sighs, briefly looking away. “I am nothing but an old fool, but one with the best intentions at heart, I hope.” 

“Well, old fool,” Antonia says, standing from the table and going to stoke the fire in the old pot-bellied stove in the far corner of the room, making sure to show off the curve of her bottom through her dress as she does. “Be a darling and come help me out of my things, would you? It’s been a long work day and I think I’d like some room to breathe.”

Antonia counts the seconds and steps it takes Francis to reach her—two and four, respectively—, feeling a pleasant little shiver run up her spine as she senses his presence at her back, close but not yet touching. She turns her head halfway, casting a heavy-lidded glance over one shoulder. “Well?” she tuts. “That zipper won’t undo itself.”

A broad hand settles lightly against the dip at her waist, and another comes up to take the zipper resting just below the nape of her neck. The zip slides seamlessly in one slow pull, Antonia’s dress opening up like the petals of some dark flower to reveal what lies beneath.

“Oh,” Francis breathes out, just a soft sound she can feel whisper against her bare shoulder. Already Antonia feels warmth gathering low in her belly and a sweet little twinge between her thighs, though she won’t show her hand to him just yet. He’ll need to work up to _that_.

Francis slides the dress down over her shoulders as delicately as if it were something made of hand-painted silk, letting it fall to the floor once he’s drawn it past her hips. Antonia steps out of the garment, leaving it where it lays, but still faces away, slightly inclining her head as if to bid him for more, _keep going_. 

Beneath the dress is a lace and mesh undergarment, not so much of a traditional corset as it is a simple girdle. But it still laces at the back and hooks in the front, and Francis undoes the loops there along the curve of her spine and pulls them loose until Antonia wriggles in relief and lets the girdle fall to the floor as well. 

“Much better,” she says in a sweet rasp, turning, finally, to face him. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Yes,” Brother Francis says, nodding while his throat bobs a bit. “I would.” 

Even with two garments peeled away, Antonia is far from bare beneath his gaze. Her lace brassiere is still hooked in place, satin panties snug as ever, and her garter belt still holds up her fine stockings. She doesn’t move to discard them, though she reaches up and pulls the silver pins loose from her hair, letting it fall down around her shoulders in loose waves.

At some point, she notices, the curtains must’ve been drawn and the overhead light in the cottage was turned low. Only the lantern in the window and the fire from the hearth shines over them, now. Odd—she can’t remember having seen Francis turn them down, but now’s not the time to question it.  
  
With a simple flourish she bends at the waist to pull and loosen the laces on her heeled boots, stepping out of them with some kind of fluid effortlessness to better show off the seam of sheer black stockings climbing up the back of her slim calves. Also revealed, to Brother Francis’ heart-palpating delight, are ten scarlet-varnished toes to match her painted fingers. 

The red, he privately thinks, looks remarkably like a certain perfectly ripened fruit found in a garden he tended a very long time ago.

Antonia straightens, a peculiar little smile making her painted mouth crook up at the corner. “You’re staring,” she says, and then leans heavily onto one long leg so her slender hip cocks out to the side. “Like what you see, Brother?” 

“You know I do,” Francis says, still standing right there in front of her, some god-awful lovelorn expression painted across his weathered face. “I’d like to see more, even, if I may be so bold as to ask.” 

Antonia smiles, and then goes over to fetch her handbag where she left it on the table. “Not so fast, pet,” she says, popping the clasp to reach inside for something. “I had some other plans for you and I, tonight.”

When she withdraws her hand, she’s holding something very black and very phallic, though not entirely in the so-called traditional sense, given the fact that it seems to have protrusions of slightly differing shapes on both ends. 

Francis swallows, hard, and tries not to let his voice crack. “And what might those plans be, madam?” 

“Just a little something new to try, together, if you’d be willing enough to let me take care of your more...intimate needs, as it were,” Antonia says, somehow inexplicably spinning the toy around her finger like a baton. “Are you amenable, Brother Francis?”

Francis looks between the inert object held in Antonia’s outstretched, manicured hand and her face, wavering a little as he thinks, but nonetheless leaning forward with a curious sort of eagerness he doesn’t seem to know he’s giving off. 

“Perhaps…” he begins, drawing in a faint wisp of a breath. “Perhaps I need you to explain the process to me, beforehand, since I’m nothing but an old fool of a gardener. In detail.”

Antonia’s face breaks into a coy smile. “Come sit by me here on the bed, darling,” she says, reaching out to gently take his hand. “I would be _delighted_ to.”

A short time later, when she’s finished explaining what part of the toy goes where, and how it works altogether—”Tru _ssst_ me, have I ever steered you wrong?”—, Francis looks thoughtful, but steeled for whatever may come next. 

“...remind me again, dear Antonia—it _undulates_ , on both ends? While it’s, uhm. Well. While it’s inside—both of us? At the same time…? My word.” 

Antonia snorts out a tiny laugh she hadn’t meant to let sneak past. “Ah, well, if ‘undulates’ is the word you want to use, by all means,” she says, passing it over to him and clicking on the discreet button. “Normal people just call it a vibe, but whatever tickles your fanny.” 

If there’s a battery required in the device, Antonia pays it no heed. She won’t need any AA’s to make the vibration last from now until the next century, eternity willing, but that’s something that goes unsaid between the two of them. 

The toy buzzes in Francis’s hand, the vague shape of it something so perfectly innocuous that suddenly seems much more lewd when his focus is narrowed in on it like that. Antonia wriggles some where she’s perched on the edge of the bed, trying not to clench her thighs together so obviously.

“Well, what say you?” she asks, tapping the side of Francis’s knee like they’re just old friends having a chat, and not two lovers negotiating a new inclusion in their very clandestine affair. “If you’d rather me do away with the whole thing, all you have to do is say the word and it’s gone. _Poof!_ Into the aether.” 

Francis clicks the button off himself and slides those blues eyes over into her lap, and then up her body to her mouth. “I never said I wasn’t interested, Antonia,” he says, and then finally looks up to meet those peculiar golden eyes of hers. “If there’s a first time for something like this, I daresay I’d rather like it to be with you.”

“Ah! Aren’t you an absolute angel,” Antonia says, gently clapping her hands together in delight. “I don’t think you’ll regret one moment of it, between you and I. But if you ever want me to stop, you remember the magic four-letter word, right?” 

Francis nods sagely. “I’ll never forget it.” 

“Good,” Antonia says, this time reaching over to handily squeeze the softness around the muscle on his upper thigh, sliding her palm down to the gardener’s knee with care. “Now that we’re on the same page in that regard, I do think you’re a touch overdressed.” 

This time Francis arches an eyebrow and gives her an appreciative once-over. “I could say the same for you, madam.” 

“Have some patience, Brother Francis,” Antonia gently chides, reaching over to start undoing the buttons on his linen shirt. “One good thing at a time.”

And that’s how Francis finds himself stripped naked rather quickly but efficiently, though he has no desire to stop Antonia’s advancements, especially when she stands before him and his eyes are just level with the sheer lace of her brassiere. She smells—intoxicating, really, and it’s difficult not to think of taking her pink nipple in his mouth and making her say any number of indelicate things against his skin that would otherwise make him blush on any other occasion.

When his clothes are thrown over the back of a nearby chair, Antonia kneels there between his knees and carefully removes her dark little glasses, setting them on the bedside table for safekeeping. The toy rests in the bedding not too far away, along with a generous bottle of lubricant the nanny had somehow managed to fit inside her slim handbag, but she pays it no mind for the moment. Right now, all her attention is focused on Francis. 

“Tell me, dove,” she says, resting her hands around the soft roundness of his middle, one red-lacquered thumb absently tracing over creases between his stomach and thigh. “What would make you most comfortable, since this is our first go-’round with this little bottle rocket?” 

“Well it’s not exactly _little_ , is it,” Francis says, looking over at the toy again just to make sure. “I’m admittedly no stranger to these...types...of personal stimulation, of course, but I think I’d like to...well.” 

He pauses for a moment, blushing so rosy it spreads to his chest, and briefly closes his eyes so he can get the rest out. “I think I’d like to watch you, Antonia, so I can see how it affects you, too.”

“Sweet as a tart, you are, and I wouldn’t want you any other way,” Antonia says, privately pleased as she leans forward and kisses his chest with a soft peck. She thumbs at the lipstick smudge there and grins up at him, happy to see he’s watching her again. “Would you like to lie on the bed so it’s less strain on your knees and back?”

Francis smiles and lets out a soft sigh. “That would be lovely, dear,” he says, and then tips her chin up to steal their first kiss of the night.

“I suppose that’s your freebie, then,” Antoinia says, eyes flashing a bit as she pulls away and still yet runs her tongue along her bottom lip to savour the taste of him. “Might make you work for the next one.” 

“One good thing at a time,” Francis echoes back to her, and Antonia decides that’s her cue to hurry along with the process of fucking this particular cheeky gardener into the mattress. She could’ve brought along a harness but on this particular night, with his particular partner, there isn’t any imminent need. 

“After you,” she says, gesturing toward the pillows at the head of the modest bed as she goes to reach for the toy. “Be a good boy and get something up under your hips for me.” 

The quickness with which Francis moves and obeys is a very good sign, indeed, and Antonia watches for only a few moments before pressing a knee into the mattress and climbing in after him. She kneels there, poised and thoughtful as she drinks in the sight of the gardener’s body, splayed out on such humble linens. Even amongst coarse cotton and a hideous handmade quilt he looks quite lovely, with his silly farmer’s tan and the handsome heft of his gut. Beneath that is his rosy cock nestled amidst fine blond hair, supple and uncut—enough to make her mouth water, though that’s a treat she’ll need to savor another time.

Francis fidgets some under the heaviness of her gaze, reaching down to fold his hands over his belly out of some misplaced sense of modesty. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re over there ogling at,” he tries to joke, but Antonia won’t have any of it. 

“A particularly gorgeous specimen of man, though he may be too daft to realize it himself,” she says with a snort, moving up between his thighs again with the toy at the ready. “You’re still certain you’d like to try?” she asks, just to be on the safe side of this particular facet of their...agreements. 

“Of course,” Francis says, running a calloused hand down the outside of her freckled arm, drawing up gooseflesh in his wake. He smiles a bit boyishly, then, showing off his slightly bucked two front teeth, which Antonia very much wants to kiss right now, though she holds back for later. “I think it’s high time we got on with it, darling, and stopped all this dithering. This poor old fool has a bedtime, you know.” 

Antonia’s eyes narrow as she smiles, not so unlike a snake. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” she quips, and tucks both thumbs in her satin underwear before drawing them down over her thighs and eventually over her stocking-clad feet, revealing the fiery thatch of neat ginger hair there at the apex between her legs.

Francis watches all this in appreciative silence, even as Antonia goes to uncap the bottle of lubricant and makes a mess of slicking up both ends. She goes to situate herself closer to him, drawing up between his knees again, but Francis holds out a hand to steady her. 

“I want to see you put it inside yourself, darling,” he says, just like that, and Antonia feels her cunt clench around nothing, the traitor. 

They both look at the slightly smaller and gently curved side of the toy, made to fit inside her just so. The end of it is rounded and vaguely phallic even its abstract design, and when Antonia clicks the vibration function on again she can feel cool air hitting the wetness between her thighs.

“Very well, then,” she says, as primly as she can manage, and then reaches down to spread her folds with one hand, slipping the end of the toy through some of the slick gathered there before the tip grazes her clit. Her body jerks and shudders as it does, though Antonia hadn’t meant to let it. The softest sound of pleasure drops into the air between them before she bites down on her lower lip and uses the cupped palm of her hand to push the vibrator up inside herself until it’s nestled in snugly, already stirring up a second heartbeat there at the core of her. 

“This,” she says after a few seconds, with the long end of the toy protruding there between her legs like a magnificent cock, “is going to be some jolly good fun.”

Francis eyeballs the length of the contraption, undulating as it is, the shaft and tip glistening with some of that artificial lubricant in the firelight. His mouth has gone a bit dry, but not in a bad way, and he suddenly is quite aware of his own cock stirring some at the sight before him. 

“About time our friend joined the party,” Antonia rasps in a slightly lower voice than before, leaning in and then abruptly falling back on her heels, thighs pressed together—clearly having some trouble herself, operating with this new apparatus inside her body. 

“Right,” she hisses, pushing through the urge to grind down against the smooth bulb pulsing inside her. She settles there between Francis’s open legs, the silicone shaft pressed along the seam of her thighs for now, and then reaches for the gardener’s own cock to start stroking him up into further arousal before she even dares sink inside him.

“Relax for me,” she murmurs, giving her wrist a little twist on the upstroke, like she knows he likes to do for himself when he’s alone. “I’ve got to put some fingers in you, yeah? Makes all this easier in the long run.”

A smooth fingertip presses low down between his cheeks, seeking the pucker of soft skin. Francis gasps when Antonia presses in up to the first knuckle, and then their eyes meet, open and bared. 

“You alright?” she asks, straining but sincere. “Remember what I said—” 

“I’m quite alright,” he answers, shifting some to open himself wider, like a familiar book ready to accommodate her. “Carry on, dear. Our word hasn’t even crossed my mind.” 

“Good,” Antonia sighs, and Francis watches as she tries to grind the heel of her hand down against her mound, then thinks better of it and has to pull her own touch away. “Okay, alright—I’ve got to bloody focus, we’ve got to take care of you.”

The bottle of lube appears again, squirted generously on her hand steadily working him open, pressed further up into his hole the looser he gets. It’s not the world’s simplest process, but it’s Antonia doing this, and Francis trusts her; has trusted her, against some niggling better judgement firmly banished into the back of his mind, since their arrangement (among unspoken Arrangements) began when Warlock was only just learning to walk.

When Antonia curls two fingers inside him in just the right way, pressing up against something that makes his cock jump and his vision waver, Francis bites back a swear and bears down against her hand, all other thoughts scattered to the far corners of the room.

“I think I’m quite ready,” he groans, panting just a little. “Oh—goodness, that feeling is—”

“Sneaks up on you a bit, doesn’t it?” Antonia says, rocking a little in rhythm with her fingers scissoring into him. She hasn’t come, not yet, but she seems to be riding the hard edge of something too close for comfort. Her eyes look a touch wild, bright and glassy in the cottage firelight, like pieces of raw amber held up to a flame.

“Yes, it does,” Francis agrees, throwing his head back against one of the pillows behind him, feeling distinctly like he needs to chase that sensation again. Chase it to the end of the earth and beyond, if necessary. “I’d like for you to put your cock in me now, Antonia. Put it in me and fuck me, please.” 

Antonia makes a choked, ragged sound, something very uncharacteristic of the prim nanny typically seen outside these four walls. She withdraws her hand from Francis’s body, wipes it somewhere neither of them care to notice, and then clambers up between his thighs and presses the tip of her cock against his hole, wet and welcoming now. 

“Eyes,” she manages, leaning over him braced on one lean arm so much stronger than it looks. “Open them. Watch me.” 

Francis does, just as she fists her cock up into him, the slip and easy slide of it sublime and met without much resistance at all, like he’d been open and ready all along. 

Antonia presses forward, another inch and then two and then three, until he can feel her mound rubbing up against his balls. They watch each other the whole time, not saying anything, hardly even breathing, and then Antonia goes down on both forearms, braced above him with her tight little belly touching his each time she exhales, eyes wide and desperate. Pleading.

“You can come, love,” Francis says softly in the small space between them, reaching up to tuck a scarlet wave behind her ear where it’s fallen loose. “Let it be the first of many.” 

And when she does let go, just then at the gentle command of his voice, she lets out a wet little sob and rides it like a wave, fucking Francis along with the jerky roll of her hips. He tucks a leg around the backs of her knees and grips her forearms, urging her body to move faster, deeper, harder into him, driving the toy up further into herself in kind. 

“There you are, gorgeous, steady now,” Francis groans, wrought a bit breathless with the sudden vigor fallen down upon him. Eventually Antonia’s little gasps die off, and her vision clears, and she comes back to him like they’re wading through a dream—which by now, they may as well be. 

“Oh, _Sat_ — _sssodding_ hell,” Antonia hisses, hilted deep in Francis, bowed over him like a repentant sinner. “And it just doesn’t stop,” she murmurs, long-suffering but warmly dazed as her body twitches with residual pleasure. “It doesn’t stop.” 

Francis smiles up at her, thinking he’s earned himself another kiss even though the night is young. “This was your idea, you know,” he says, surging up a bit to meet her, and this time Antonia moans against his mouth, still rocking her hips in shallow, sweet little thrusts that make stoking warmth bloom through him, the whole of it as remarkable and velveteen as the gifted black orchid.

“Here, I want to try something,” she says, pulling out with a wet sound that leaves Francis unbearably empty, but only for a moment. “Turn over a bit, let me hold your legs like this—ah, perfect.”

She’s pressed up against him again, holding both his knees in the crook of one arm, sliding back in with that cock to fill him anew. The slightly twisted position isn’t as uncomfortable as it would seem, especially with Antonia supporting his lower half, but Francis still has to remind himself to breathe.

This new angle has Antonia’s cock rubbing along that little place inside him that makes stars and shimmering nebulae wheel behind his eyes, again and again, relentless in that steady rhythm until he feels like he’s going to piss himself, though he knows he couldn’t even if he really tried. 

“Oh, h-heavens,” Francis chokes out, eyes screwed shut, and when he reaches for his own cock Antonia snatches his hand and grips it in her own, not letting him touch himself as she thrusts in hard and deep with a lewd snap of her hips. 

“Together, this time,” she pants out, reaching down with her right hand to grip the length of him while she still holds his fingers prisoner in her left, thumbing along the underside of Francis’s rosy glans and over the tip like it’s something precious. “Do you hear me, Brother Francis?” 

“I hear you, darling,” Francis wheezes, feeling something build inside him as she fucks him toward some impossible end, slowly and steadily like a great behemoth rising from the depths of the ocean. “Oh, fuck, I—don’t you _dare_ stop.” 

Antonia strokes his cock in time with the movement of her hips, rolling into him again and again, faster now, chasing Francis toward the pinprick of light they both see ahead. “I’m not, I won’t, I can’t,” she bleats out, gone into that place of wilderness again, and Francis squeezes her hand for all he’s worth, pressing a thumb into the heart of her palm until he thinks a permanent print may be left there. 

“You’re so bloody gorgeous like this,” Antonia whimpers, curving over him as much as she can while she works him toward devastation, long hair hanging around them in a curtain that seems to shield them from the rest of the world. “Taking my cock like you were made for it—so divine, dove, I don’t ever want you to spend a lonely night again—” 

Francis isn’t expecting the fat tears that gather at the corners of his eyes, unbidden, at those words, or the simultaneous shame and catharsis to be found in the act of crying in the midst of something like this. But he doesn’t try to stop them, and simply lets himself be so lovingly split apart, Antonia not once stopping her babbling now that she’s swept up in the storm that will ruin them both.

“Can you feel how deep I am inside you?” she chokes out, thankful for the plush curve of his ass if only to keep her pelvic bone from grinding into him hard enough to bruise. “Nobody else has been there before, angel, nobody, only me, just me—”

Francis feels something inside him shatter, then, but it’s not the release he was expecting. 

“C-Crowley,” he whispers, just that one word, coming out with all his tears before he can stop it. And then, again, and again, and again, “Oh, God, Crowley, please, _please, Crowley—!_ ” 

“Oh fucking hell, angel, you’ve gone and done it now,” Crowley hisses, and then the sweltering air in the room changes, and it’s like a thin muslin veil is yanked off of them, leaving them bared to some shared secret crashing all around.

“It’s me, it’s always been me, not _her_ doing this to you,” Crowley whispers, composure dashed upon the rocks as his own eyes glisten. “Do you hear me, angel? Open your eyes and look at me like _thisss_.” 

Aziraphale does turn and look, then, blue eyes still wet and streaming, but not so much that he can’t see the raw emotion on Crowley’s face, unchanged from before save for the fact that those golden eyes aren’t holding their crepe paper secrets at bay. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he whispers, wanting so badly to kiss him again, but barely able to hold on. “I’ve always known it was y-you.” 

Aziraphale’s hand joins Crowley’s around his cock, and it only takes two, three more jagged thrusts of the demon’s narrow hips until they crash into each other like two wrecked planets, unraveling there in the gardener’s cottage with a silent tremor that may or may not shake the earth for at least ten kilometers. Inside the manor, the Dowlings’ dishes and cutlery rattle in their shelves and drawers, and the butler snorts awake from where he was leaning against a box of Frosted Flakes in the pantry with a bottle of gin in his lap.

—and then, life goes onward as it does, breakable but beautifully unyielding.

Crowley is distantly aware that his wings may have unfurled themselves, big enough that they nearly fill the surrounding room. That infernal vibrating dildo is still _undulating_ inside him, making him feel raw and oversensitive, and he banishes its mysterious power source with a pointed thought. 

Beneath him, Aziraphale is panting in soft, damp gasps, and both of them are covered from the elbow down in pearly streaks of warm spend, but it’s really not all that unpleasant, especially when Crowley folds his dark wings around them both like a shroud. 

It’s always been easier, he surmises, to talk plainly in the dark. 

“Goodness gracious,” Aziraphale says, at long last. There’s still at least six inches of silicone stuffed halfway to his colon, but it seems more comfortable to leave that where it is, just for the moment. 

“I’ll say,” Crowley mumbles, turning to press a crooked kiss somewhere against the angel’s hip. He rests his face there for a few beats, simply breathing in the comforting smell of his own dusky wings and _Aziraphale_ , both of them together making him yearn for a place he doesn’t know.

“You can pull out, dearest,” Aziraphale says, giving Crowley’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Come down here so I can give you a proper kiss as thanks, if you’d be so kind.”

“Ngh,” Crowley replies, and then does as he’s told, drawing the toy from Aziraphale first and then from himself, shivering a bit as he does. He notices one of his garter clips has popped loose, and his ripped stocking is rolled halfway down his leg, but those things barely even register as a problem in his mind. 

When they’re lying side by side, and Crowley is still holding a wing over them both with the other folded at his back, Aziraphale cups a warm hand around the back of his neck and makes good on his promise.

“Did we just cock anything up?” Crowley asks, a bit stupidly, humming nonetheless when Aziraphale bows his head to kiss the tiny swell of exposed skin above the line of his lace brassiere. “Or is that moot when you willingly go throwing stones in glass houses.”

“I don’t think we cocked up anything, per se, other than each other,” Azirphale says a bit guiltily, but laughing warmly all the same. “Perhaps we should just write this one off and not worry ourselves too much about it, hm? That seems like the simplest option, given there’s still more work yet to be done.”

There are still tacky places on the angel’s cheeks where he’d wept, and Crowley touches them again just to commit the experience to memory, to file it away somewhere where he’ll keep it for himself, always, in case he doesn’t ever have the opportunity again.

“Are you...alright, though?” Crowley manages to say. “Tears, n’ all. Gotta ask.”

“I’m not upset in the slightest,” Aziraphale says softly, taking Crowley’s wrist and kissing the inside of it so sweetly. “I figured this may have happened sooner or later.” 

“You did?” Crowley blurts out, hopelessly glad to still have both of them cocooned in his wings. 

“Well, it’d crossed my mind a time or two, given the delicate state of our— _arrangement_ , as it were,” Aziraphale answers quietly. “I just couldn’t help myself, this time. It came out of me in quite the rush, didn’t it? You really had me worked up into a bit of a lather.”

A lazy, crooked grin spreads across Crowley’s face, now. “A lather, huh?” he says, batting his eyelashes. “Think I had myself worked up into one, truthfully. They’ve come a long way with those contraptions since the Romans were putting angry hornets in glass tubes, and all.”

“Consider me duly enlightened,” Aziraphale says, leaving another sweet peck on Crowley’s chin. “We’ll have to try that one again, sometime. You’ve really piqued my curiosity.” 

Crowley lets those words sink into him, solidifying like some kind of smoothed keepsake inside his rib cage. It’s not anything new and sudden, but then again, each and every time he and Aziraphale have a roll in the metaphorical hay, he comes up for air afterwards wondering how long his luck will hold before it inevitably, always, seems to run out. 

“What are your plans for the weekend?” he asks, testing the waters. Pushing his pawn across the board, just far enough toe up with the queen. A dare, maybe, if anybody were so bold as to listen. His fingertips dance along Aziraphale’s chest, writing out some impossible hope in morse code.

“Not moving from this cottage, or this bed, ideally,” Aziraphale answers whole-heartedly. “And you?” 

“Glad we have that train of thought in common,” Crowley admits, rustling his feathers a bit. “Couldn’t very well let all that cream you whipped go to waste, now could we?” 

Aziraphale chuckles some at that, newly emboldened now that he’s regained most of his senses, and reaches down between them to stroke through some of the residual wetness between Crowley’s thighs. 

“My dear,” he says, pressing a reverent thumb along that tender place that stirs a low moan and tremble out of his companion, “I wouldn’t dare imagine it.”

Later, there will be time left for the dizzying pull of their everlasting game of give and take, though not on a scale any grander than the four walls of this little cottage. Very soon, without moving much from where he’s still sprawled in the bed, Aziraphale will ask Crowley to rise up and straddle his face for a spell, and then—holding him there in place while the demon’s belly quivers and his thighs shake—then, indeed, will their long weekend begin in earnest. 

But first;

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, the lightness of it landing like a petal against Crowley’s cheek. 

“Mmm?” Crowley asks, still a bit preoccupied with shallowly rubbing himself into the angel’s divine fingers.

“Knock three times, next time—even if you show up looking however you’d like. So long as it’s genuinely... _You_.” 

This makes Crowley pause, the whole line of his body gone quite still. “You want me to do that?” he says, careful. “No more Antonia and Francis? No more nanny dearest?”

“Nanny dearest and Brother Francis can be reserved for our workplace affairs and country walks with Warlock in the summer evenings, which I quite enjoy,” Aziraphale admits before he even thinks it all through. “But really, only if—you actually want to, of course. I didn’t mean to imply it was _required_ —” 

“I’ll knock three times on your bloody skull, how about that,” Crowley huffs, punctuating his words with another press of his lips, vermillion lipstick long since smeared away. “I gotta say, I do quite like these mutton chops on you. Fetching, in an unexpected way.” 

“Oh, well, I’d say the same for your painted fingers and toes, and everything beyond,” Aziraphale demures, blushing a bit. And then, stroking the backs of his knuckles along black silken flight feathers, “Fold these up a bit, darling, so I can see your lovely face again.”  
  
When Crowley’s eyes are shining once again by firelight, golden and snakelike and entirely _Crowley_ , Aziraphale strokes a hand around the contour of his face and smiles. “I don’t know why we even bother with fooling about, sometimes,” he says with a sigh, and then doesn’t elaborate, but his companion seems to understand him anyway. 

“You can run, natch, but you can never hide,” Crowley murmurs, closing his eyes and tipping his face into Aziraphale’s hand, leaving a cascade of that familiar ginger hair to fall between them. Just the same shade as it's always been, really, since they stood on the eastern wall and watched the first rain come down in a world of desert. 

“Sometimes I feel as if I may want to stop running,” Aziraphale says, and the very utterance of it scares him in such a profound way he almost wishes he could take the words back and smother them into nothingness—but then not, when Crowley opens his eyes again and looks at him like that.

“So stop,” the demon says simply, stretching languidly like a cat before folding himself in further against Aziraphale’s chest. His wings are gone now, tucked away where they can’t be seen. “Take yourself a cheeky little breather. I’m right here if you need to go thwarting any wiles, after all.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, thankful in unspeakable ways that they’ve carved out this time for themselves, unexpected and unconventional as it all may be. A gardener and a nanny, with eleven years and the budding antichrist strung between them; five down, and six more yet to go. 

“Yes,” he repeats, holding Crowley close. “Yes, you are.”  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> if you guess their safe word you get ten thousand internet points
> 
> I'm @honkforhankcon on twitter if you wanna vibe!


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